"Is anyone in there?” the police officer asked. He was young and Asian, and wore a black plastic tag that said Nguyen. Harriet took great comfort from the large gun strapped to his side.
"We don't know,” she said. “This is my aunt's house. I live here now. But she's gone on a cruise. I got home and found the door unlocked and open."
Another patrol car pulled up; two officers got out. The driver was a skinny blonde woman with leathery skin, her partner a chunky, red-faced guy. The Asian officer explained the situation to the two newcomers, and they drew their guns and headed for the house.
"So, what did the guy look like?” the Asian police officer asked Harriet.
"What guy?"
"The one that popped him,” he said, and hooked a thumb toward Aiden, who now had blood dripping off his chin. “Which way did he go?” He took a closer look at Aiden. “You want me to call an ambulance for you?"
Harriet and Aiden looked at each other.
"We haven't seen anyone,” Aiden said. “And, ah, this is unrelated to the robbery. I got here just after Harriet discovered the door was open."
The officer took a long look at each of them. Harriet blushed but didn't say anything.
"You need to get that checked, it looks like you might need stitches,” he said.
The three of them waited in silence until the other two came out of the house.
"There's no one in there,” the woman said. Aiden gave Harriet an “I told you so” look.
The red-faced guy joined the group.
"Somebody's sure been here, though."
Harriet bolted for the door.
"Wait,” Aiden said, but she was already out of reach.
She opened the door and stopped. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
Aiden caught up to her. “Oh, my God,” he said.
What was left of the quilts lay in pieces on every surface. Wisps of cotton batting hung in jagged ropes from torn edges. Thread spools were strewn over the floor and the cutting table top looked as if someone had picked up the thread rack and thrown it in anger. The piecrust table was on its side by the window, its tea cups in shattered pieces on the floor.
"Don't touch anything,” the Asian officer said from behind them. “I've called the crime scene analysts. You'll need to stay out until they finish."
Harriet shivered.
"You can sit in the back of my car if you want. I can turn it on and run the heater."
"That won't be necessary,” Aiden said. “If it's okay, we'll go back to my place so I can get a bandage on this cut. I'm living in the apartment over the Main Street Vet Clinic."
"Vet clinic?” Harriet said, and then screamed. “Fred!"
Aiden clamped his hands onto her shoulders. The policeman looked at him, but he had no clue as to who Fred was either.
"My cat,” Harriet explained and started to cry.
"Your cat is fine,” the female officer said as she walked over to the group. “He's a little freaked, but he's on the top shelf of the bookcase upstairs. He looked totally okay, and I don't think he's going anywhere. We'll make sure the crime scene people keep the doors shut."
The criminalists arrived and got out of their car. Harriet was relieved Darcy Lewis was one of them. Darcy was a drop-in member of Loose Threads, a petite, thirty-year-old single mother. Her brown hair was cut in a short shag style that made her look like Peter Pan.
"Aren't you the quilt depot for the Tacoma show?” she asked.
Harriet nodded silently, the misery apparent on her face.
"I'll start in your studio, and then we can let you in while we do the rest,” Darcy said and joined her partner, an older man who carried two boxes of equipment into Harriet's workspace.
Foggy Point wasn't big enough to employ one criminalist full time, let alone the three they had, so they contracted their services to small communities all over western Washington. That meant Darcy got to do what she had always wanted to do without having to move to a big city, but in return she was on the road a lot. It was not unusual for her to get called out at night, which allowed her to use comp time and attend Loose Threads every now and then.
"You should be able to go into your studio in about an hour, give or take,” she said. “Quilts can be repaired. Just be glad you weren't here when these clowns showed up."
Harriet walked into the studio and flicked the overhead light on. She and Aiden had gone to his apartment, where she'd helped him clean up the cut on his head and then applied butterfly strips. He assured her he was a quick healer and that in a few days no one would even know he'd been beaten with a sprinkler.
The workroom was a riot of color as they entered; but instead of a complementary arrangement of pattern and shape, the scene was harsh and discordant. Pastels fought with crayon colors and muddy browns and grays. Quilts were strewn everywhere, their bindings hanging like Spanish moss from the edges. The shelf cubicles were empty. The box of show quilts had been upended, and the remains were all over the floor. Carry bags of all types littered the space.
She went to the show quilts first. She picked up Connie's bright sherbet-colored one and held it up. It had picked up a few thread clippings from the floor, but it seemed otherwise intact. She folded it and laid it on the seat of the wing chair. Jenny's purple quilt just needed its binding reapplied on one side. It, too, got folded and placed on the chair.
DeAnn's hadn't fared as well. She had done a simple eight-pointed star block called Peaceful Hours. It had a second set of smaller points that surrounded a center octagon. Both sets of points were densely stitched, which allowed the octagon to puff up. Several of the octagons had been cut open. DeAnn could repair the tears and applique a motif in the octagons, but sewing small shaped fabric pieces over a background fabric with stitches that were essentially invisible was slow, painstaking work under ideal conditions. Performing the technique as a method of covering damaged fabric would be difficult, and it was unlikely it could be accomplished in time for the show.
Two seams had been split open on Robin McLeod's log cabin quilt, but again, it was damage that could be repaired.
There didn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to the carnage. Some quilts were shredded beyond recognition while others were barely touched, as if the attacker had tired of ripping them up partway through.
"I need to call the Loose Threads,” she said with grim determination.
"You know it's almost eleven o'clock, right?” Aiden pointed out.
"Trust me, they won't care. I'm supposed to take their quilts to the show tomorrow. They're going to want all the time available to fix the damage, if that's even possible."
She looked around the floor, found the phone and then the phone book. She dialed Mavis Willis first. Mavis hadn't lost anything in the carnage, but besides Avanell she was the only group member Harriet had known for more than a couple of weeks. She was sure Mavis would know who should be called tonight and how to break the news of what had happened. Besides, with the contents of her desk in the mix on the floor, she'd need Mavis to fill in some last names and phone numbers.
"Honey, you just hang on while I throw on some clothes and grab my stitching bag. I'll be right over,” Mavis said as soon as she heard the news.
"She's on her way,” she told Aiden and hung up.
"I tried to call my mom again while you were on the phone,” Aiden said and flipped his cell phone shut. “It's weird. She's not answering anywhere."
"Maybe she's working late,” Harriet said. “The reason she didn't go to the Chamber dinner tonight was so she could work. Maybe she's still there."
"I guess. She must be out in the factory and can't hear the phone. It's just weird. Mom has to look behind the shower curtain to make sure no one is in the house after dark when she's home alone. It's hard to imagine her in the factory by herself. And it's not like her to be out of touch."
"Maybe she's not alone.” Harriet didn't want to point out that his mother might have found a boyfriend in the three years he was out of the country.